


His Dark Times

by 2am_limbo



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depressed Sherlock, Established Relationship, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Mention of Mary, Missing Scene, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Reichenbach, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-30 20:19:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5178305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2am_limbo/pseuds/2am_limbo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You are what has always been so important to me, John. All of this, all of this was for you -- and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade -- but it’s you who has always meant the world to me, and I want nothing more than for you to be happy. If I had known that night that you were happy, truly happy, with Mary and your new life, I wouldn’t have come back for you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Dark Times

It’s no secret that Sherlock’s brain is a brilliant, amazing, and oftentimes maddening enigma, especially to John Watson. John often finds himself in awe in the middle of a case, struggling to stay awake, as Sherlock paces around the flat, fingers tapping together as he thinks, silk robe flying in his wake after having no more than two power naps in four days. Sherlock is utterly exhausting, John thinks, but he loves him anyway. He loves every amazing, beautiful, infuriating, brilliant, maddening fiber of Sherlock Holmes’ being.

So it’s also no surprise when Sherlock falls into one of his “Dark Times”, as Mycroft refers to them. Sometimes John finds himself running through various diagnoses in his head while watching Sherlock, but he usually only settles on “eccentric”, always disregarding his brother’s opinion regarding Sherlock’s “unattractive traits”. But John loves him regardless.

It’s very rare for John to wake up before Sherlock does. Usually John stumbles into the kitchen around 7:00 or 8:00 AM, occasionally a bit earlier, only to find Sherlock at the kitchen table with his microscope or a stack of books, fully clothed in his usual suit. But on this one particular Sunday morning, John woke up to an eerily quiet flat. No kettle boiling, no tapping on a keyboard, no creaking floorboards that indicated a pacing Sherlock... no Sherlock at all. After about a half hour of no Sherlock, John padded his way to Sherlock’s closed bedroom door. He heard no sound coming from the room, and he quietly knocked.

“Sherlock?” John called. No answer. John tapped on the door two more times to signal his entrance and turned the doorknob to peek inside the room. Sunlight crept in through the curtains and illuminated Sherlock’s form. He was lying on his side facing the window, his forearm and hand resting on his hip, and John could tell that his eyes were open.

“Sherlock, alright?”

“Yes.” Sherlock barely twitched at the sound of John’s voice invading the sanctuary of his silent room. Instead he slowly let out a breath and adjusted his head deeper into his pillow.

John walked over to Sherlock’s side and peered down at him -- his best friend, his lover -- and gently brushed his curls back from his forehead. “Hey,” he whispered as he moved his hand down to Sherlock’s shoulder to softly urge him to roll over a bit to face John. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing in particular.” Sherlock’s voice was slow and drawn out, each syllable sounded pained, and he slowly blinked as if he couldn’t be bothered with even the most basic humanly functions.

“Move over.” John laid down behind Sherlock, wrapped his arm around his waist, and squeezed lightly for comfort. John felt Sherlock relax a little into him and closed his eyes, and moved his head slightly back towards John. This was their ritual during the Dark Times. He pressed his cheek on Sherlock’s head and softly kissed his curls, and then moved his hand up to rest on Sherlock’s heart, feeling his slow but steady heartbeat.

John waited a few minutes before speaking again. “Let me make you some tea and we can hop in the shower.” John knew that in these Times, the only way Sherlock would even get himself out of bed was if John made him. Which usually consisted of literally dragging him out of bed until Sherlock gave in and stood on his own by the time John got him near the edge of the bed.

“Don’t move,” Sherlock whispered.

After a while, Sherlock and John found themselves in another comfortable position during brief periods of dozing. John had remained on his side while Sherlock had turned over onto his back, his face somewhat nuzzled in John’s chest, fast asleep. Sherlock had woken briefly from a bout of decent sleep by a nightmare of his time away for those two years -- a somewhat short period filled with torture before Mycroft was finally able to get him out -- and John coaxed him back to sleep by running his hands through Sherlock’s soft curls. Sherlock loved when John ran his hands through his hair, and he would sometimes give a small muffled hum of pleasure in his sleep when John did so. It always made John smile.

John softly traced his lips over Sherlock’s forehead, planting a kiss there as he softly moved to get off the bed. He needed to pee and get a drink of water.

“John.” It was barely a mumble before John had even completely turned around to place his feet on the floor. It always killed John when he heard the desperation in Sherlock’s voice on these occasions. Always. It wasn’t very often at all that Sherlock allowed himself to feel this vulnerable, let alone show it. But he trusted John, trusted him with everything, and John knew that Sherlock needed human contact and compassion as much as anyone else even though he was adamant that he was above all of that. John knew this side of Sherlock that no one else in the world was ever allowed to see. Sherlock was a changed man when he came home.

“I’m coming right back, promise.” Sherlock only blinked at him and then allowed his eyes to fall shut. John stared at him for a brief second, taking in Sherlock’s beautiful features. His skin, those cheekbones, eyelashes, lips. He was perfect. John finally rose to his feet.

John crossed the hall and headed to the bathroom, took care of his business, and then headed for the kitchen. He was starving, but he wanted to eat with Sherlock when he was ready. _“How did you even survive before you met me?” John had asked as Sherlock, tight-lipped with furrowed brows, peered down at John._ John snorted humorously at the memory, and looked over at the kitchen table only to find that Mrs. Hudson, bless her heart, had left a dish full of homemade muffins.

When John made it back to Sherlock’s bedroom, he froze for a moment, confused.

“Uh, Sherlock?” John placed the plate with two muffins down on the nightstand along with a mug of hot tea. “Why --”

“It’s too bright. Headache.”

In the few minutes that John had been gone, Sherlock had taken the comforter off the bed and threw it up over the window, haphazardly tucking it in behind the curtain rod to block out the minimal sunlight seeping through. Now, Sherlock laid on his back in the middle of the bed, arms outstretched at both sides, taking up the entire bed.

“Here, Mrs. Hudson made muffins.” John offered the plate up to Sherlock, hoping he’d take one, but Sherlock only looked at them and frowned and mumbled that he wasn’t hungry.

“Please. You need to eat. It’s banana nut, your favorite.”

Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh, and John knew that he couldn’t resist. “I’ll have a couple pieces of yours then.”

“I want my own bloody muffin.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitched up into a smirk at that, and for a moment John saw his eyes lighten a bit.

“There’s my Sherlock.” He picked up a muffin and shoved it towards Sherlock, who accepted it with a crestfallen face. “And there’s tea.” John added in his military voice, making it clear that there would be no way in hell that Sherlock was getting out of this. Sherlock liked it when John pulled rank. It was one of his favorite things.

Sherlock sat up and somewhat hunched over himself against the headboard. He looked even thinner than normal in his sweatpants and fitted white t-shirt. John watched him for a second as he picked at his muffin on the plate, occasionally eating pieces of it. Sherlock could practically feel all of the questions and concern that John had for him. It radiated off of the man.

“I’m not feeling well today, John.” Sherlock’s tone was flat, stating a fact. There was no annoyance in his tone, and he never looked up from his muffin. “Nightmares. Certain ones always bring this on.”

“Of your time away?” Sherlock didn’t answer, but John knew.

“I never told you what happened. Those last couple of months before Mycroft found me.”

John had been there with Sherlock through his worst bouts of depression over the years, and he should’ve known, should have _felt_ , that this time was a little bit different than his drastic mood swings. John tossed his muffin wrapper over on the nightstand, prepared to give Sherlock his full attention.

It took Sherlock a long while to start talking. He looked around the room, avoiding John altogether, his jaws clenching, and John could see his eyes tearing up a bit. Finally, he tilted his head, his eyes fluttering up to look at John for a moment without actually seeing him.

“In Serbia,” he whispered. John felt his own breath hitch in his throat at how much pain this was causing Sherlock.

“You don’t have to tell me, Sherlock.”

“No.” Sherlock growled, shaking his head violently. “I need…” At that point, John moved over to sit next to Sherlock, looking across the room to the same spot on the wall that Sherlock was watching.

“I was captured and tied up. Well. Chained up, rather.” The usual hardness was starting to overtake Sherlock’s features, and he straightened his back a bit. John knew that it was all a facade. His own way of coping.

“Tortured me. Tried to figure out who I was, who I was working for. Fists, whips, hot pokers.” He examined his arms absent-mindedly, remembering the wounds, sliding fingers over scars. “Sometimes they touched me.” He added quickly. _Touched_. John knew what he meant. Sherlock saw from a sideways glance as John’s hands balled into fists. “There was only one man who touched me. The others weren’t interested. But it seemed to be daily. I’m not sure if it actually was, but it felt that way. I don’t know how long I was even there. It felt like eternity. In the end, they no longer cared about obtaining any information from me, it was only a game for them. I never asked Mycroft for details, and he didn’t offer any.”

Sherlock suddenly remembered to breathe, and sucked in a deep breath of air. “Anyway,” he said loudly, slapping his hands on his knees, and looking at John. “That’s why I can’t sleep and such.” He sounded so calm and nonchalant now, waving a hand in the air to dismiss everything that was said, and it left John reeling. Sherlock threw himself back down onto the bed and grabbed John by the front of his shirt until he was laying with him. He grabbed John’s hand and wrapped his arm around his own waist as he turned onto his side for John to spoon him.

Under John’s arm, though, he felt Sherlock take a shuddering breath. John began rubbing small circles over Sherlock’s stomach and chest, silent promises, and suddenly Sherlock was sucking in deep breaths, almost as if hyperventilating, but only to keep himself from shedding tears. He buried his face in his pillow as he tried to even out his breathing and regain control over his emotions and the accompanying bodily responses.

John teared up seeing his Sherlock lying there in front of him, feeling those shuddering breaths, hearing Sherlock trying to breathe.

“Hey…” John whispered, propping himself up on his elbow. He brought his arm up to run down Sherlock’s arm and then pulling him closer. He ran his face in Sherlock’s hair and whispered, “I’m here, you’re with me here, and you’re safe. They’ll never hurt you again, and I’ll never let anyone hurt you. I’m not going to let anyone take you away from me again.”

“You can’t promise something like that, John,” Sherlock murmured.

“I can.” Military voice. “Come here,” John added in a softer tone. He positioned himself to roll Sherlock over onto his back, and he placed his hand at Sherlock’s side to prop himself up as he looked down in Sherlock’s face. He didn’t say anything for a moment, brushing away the curls from his forehead, and then making eye contact.

“I’m right here. You’re safe with me. Do you hear me? I’m not letting _anything_ happen to you. We’re going to get through this.”

Sherlock blinked up at him, a small frown forming, and remained quiet.

“Understand?”

“Yes.” Sherlock spoke so quietly that John could barely hear him. He looked so small lying there underneath John as if the bed was engulfing him, Sherlock burying himself in the expensive linens.

John nodded once decisively, and gently pressed his lips to Sherlock’s forehead. He didn’t move away for a minute, only resting his lips there, and Sherlock closed his eyes, allowing John to hold him there, keep him grounded, keep him safe.

“John.” A small, choked voice in the silence.

John knew that tone, too. He knew what Sherlock needed, reassurance, calm, peace, and he hummed serenely at Sherlock’s forehead. Lean, slender, strong arms wrapped around John in that moment, hands frantically grabbing John’s shirt, his back, clutching and grasping for something that John couldn’t even see. Sherlock’s breathing once again became erratic and rough hidden against John’s chest, and he pulled John down as far as he could. This is the first time he’s ever in his life allowed himself to break down like this. The weight of everything was too much, entirely too much, and he couldn’t _do it_ anymore.

John’s heart was breaking at the sight of Sherlock like this. Shattering and crumbling in a million different pieces, and he didn’t know what to do. He was a bloody doctor, and he _couldn't fix this_. Everyone has their breaking point, John had certainly experienced his, but he never even imagined his Sherlock -- his cool, sure, resilient, arrogant self -- ever reaching his, not like this.

John firmly smoothed down Sherlock’s curls, ran his hands down his face “Shh…” Back up to his hair, holding him _here_ , here in their bed. “Shh…”

“I never --” Sherlock choked on a deep, shuddering breath, his face still buried in John’s chest. “I never wanted to leave. I never wanted to leave you. I couldn’t --”

“I know, I know,” John whispered. He really didn’t know. Not to the extent that he wanted to know. But he _felt_.

“I didn’t have a choice. He was going to kill you. He was going to _take you away from me_.”

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath then and suddenly stilled, his body becoming rigid as Sherlock was finally able to somewhat pull himself together again, and his tone iced over, removing all trace of emotion.

“You were with me the entire time, though. Did you know that, John?” But Sherlock’s eyes gave him away. They glistened as he peered up at John, still hovering over him, and they were pleading.

“A simple construct of my mind, really. Being away for two years, away from everything you know, completely alone and isolated. I would go days before I even saw another human being. You start to miss things, John. It starts with the basic, most obvious things, like running hot water and space heaters. And then other things. Tea -- _decent_ tea -- You would think that the Middle East and Asia would have phenomenal tea, _our_ tea, but no.” Sherlock scoffed for a second at the memory and rolled his eyes, and John couldn’t help but give a twitch of a smile.

“And decent pillows. Or beds, for that matter. I’ve been everywhere, John. Worked and slept -- well, worked more than slept -- everywhere for two years trying to _fix_ this. I tracked them down in the Middle East, parts of Asia, America. There was even a small cell in _Iceland_. Iceland! They were everywhere. God, he was thorough.” Sherlock was talking more to himself than to John, his eyes faraway and unseeing.

“And you would have killed me for the amount of cigarettes I consumed,” Sherlock gave a playful smirk up at John, looking quite proud of himself before continuing.

“A couple months until the end of the mission -- I was so _close_ to ending it, I could _taste it_ \-- I was captured in Serbia. They were baffled by me at first.They couldn’t get any valuable information out of me, for one thing, but there are many advantages to speaking multiple languages.” Sherlock’s eyes floated back up to John’s briefly, a small, humorless smile forming on his lips. “So I played with them for a while. It was a game for me. The most fun I had had in two years.”

John’s chest clenched. He could feel the onslaught.

“By day three, they were only angry and irritated. Beyond angry. By day seven, I stopped taunting them, the pain outweighing the entertainment. That’s when you came to see me. Day ten, I gave up and retreated to my Mind Palace. After that, I stopped counting. You came to see me every day. You even came sometimes in that ridiculous oatmeal colored jumper of yours.” _My favorite jumper of yours_.

John ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair as he spoke, smoothing away the curls from his forehead.

“I don’t know how long I was held there until Mycroft was able to pull me out. He had me in one of his private care setups for a couple weeks upon returning to London. And then I came to find you.” Sherlock looked back up to John’s face, angling his head a little bit to maintain contact with John’s hand. “I lied that night in the restaurant. I wasn’t working for a couple weeks upon returning to London before coming to you. I didn’t want you to know.”

John paled, and Sherlock immediately knew what he was thinking.

“Oh, please,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You had -- _have_ \-- every right to be angry with me, and that includes pummeling me.” Sherlock gave him a pointed, defiant look. He didn’t blame him for anything.

“I didn’t know about Mary. Mycroft tried telling me, but I didn’t listen. I couldn’t fathom why things would have changed. I wouldn’t have --” Sherlock’s eyes drifted back away, but he tilted his head a fraction of an inch to bump John’s hand, reminding him to keep running his fingers through his hair.

“You are what has always been so important to me, John. All of this, all of this was for you -- and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade -- but it’s you who has always meant the world to me, and I want nothing more than for you to be happy. If I had known that night that you were happy, truly happy, with Mary and your new life, I wouldn’t have come back for you.”

Sherlock’s breathing had become shallow and strained. He was working himself up again.

“I would’ve found a way to move on, to let you move on and continue rebuilding your life,” Sherlock sucked in a breath. “Regardless of how _boring_ it would have been.”

John smiled at him then. That _that was brilliant_ awe-induced smile, and kissed Sherlock’s forehead.

“Sherlock Holmes, you utterly amazing and brilliant madman, I love you, I have always loved you, and if you hadn’t have come back for me…” John didn’t need to finish his thought, Sherlock knew.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, follow me on tumblr @ [2am-limbo](http://2am-limbo.tumblr.com/).


End file.
